Weird West 04 - The Doctor and the Dinosaurs (3 page)

“Each other,” answered Edison. “What if they resurrect a couple of thousand dinosaurs, including a few hundred carnivorous ones—and after they kill the paleontologists they head south and west? They might eat a thousand prey dinosaurs along the way, but sooner or later they'll run out, and then they'll kill and eat whatever's available.”

“I agree,” said Buntline, leaning against an empty bookcase. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“What does one of these things actually look like?” asked Holliday.

“Ned, you're the artist,” said Edison.

Buntline got a pen and a pad of paper and began sketching a carnosaur baring its teeth. When he was done he handed it to Holliday.

“Mean-looking critter,” opined the dentist. “How big is he?”

“Oh, probably eight to ten times larger than a horse.”

“Suddenly that sanitarium is looking a lot better to me,” said Holliday.

H
OLLIDAY WAS NOT HAPPY
. The Bunt Line, the horseless coach created by Ned Buntline, terminated at Fort Collins, and he'd had to buy and ride a horse the rest of the way to Cheyenne. He was not fond of horses; he didn't like their smell, he didn't enjoy riding them, and he had a sneaking suspicion that most of them were just waiting for him to fall off so they could trample him.

He passed out of a sparse forest onto flat, almost barren land, and saw a sign posted that he was three miles from Cheyenne. At least then he could sell the horse and hunt up a horse-drawn stagecoach that would take him to the two paleontologists’ camps. First, though, he planned to stop at a saloon and slake his seemingly endless thirst. He had a canteen, of course, but he figured that water was for bathing, whiskey was for drinking, and only a fool mixed the two up.

As he entered town he sought out the main street, rode up to the first saloon he could find, thankfully climbed down off his horse, and entered the place. The interior had the usual wooden tables and chairs, a faro game in the back that no one seemed interested in, and spittoons
not just lining the bar but spread through the saloon. There was a huge picture of a shirtless man with his fists doubled up, hanging behind the bar, covering part of a long mirror, and Holliday studied it as he waited for the bartender to approach him.

“What do you think of him?” asked a man who was standing next to him.

“I prefer paintings of naked ladies,” answered Holliday.

“That's our local champion, Bill Smiley,” said the man proudly. “He's the one who's going to knock the great John L. down for the count this afternoon.”

“Seems to me that people have been trying to do that for twelve or thirteen years now,” replied Holliday, obviously unimpressed.

“Well, Smiley's the man who can do it,” said the man adamantly. “And he's bringing the championship to Wyoming,” he added, his chest swelling with pride.

“If you say so,” responded Holliday, trying to cut off any further discussion.

“You think otherwise?”

“I'm a stranger here,” said Holliday. “I have no idea.”

“I've got fifty dollars says that Smiley wins,” said the man pugnaciously, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill and waving it around.

“I'll take that bet,” said Holliday, pulling out his own cash.

The expressions of the onlookers said he was throwing his money away, that no intruder was going to beat their local hero on his own turf.

“We'll let the bartender hold it,” said the man.

“Fine by me,” said Holliday.

“I just hope that damned ref isn't as blind as he looks,” muttered the man. “Whoever heard of a referee with spectacles?”

“Spectacles?” repeated Holliday.

“Yeah.”

Suddenly Holliday smiled. “Is he from New York?”

“That's what they say, though I hear he spent some time in the Dakota Badlands pretending to be a cowboy.”

“Son of a bitch, I know him!” exclaimed Holliday. “I'll be damned!”

“If you're who I think you are, that's a given,” said the man.

The saloon suddenly went completely silent, and every head turned toward Holliday. He stared at the man, then shrugged. “What the hell,” he muttered. “When you're right, you're right. Now, when and where is this fight?”

“Maybe an hour from now, out there by Jake Gilmore's corral,” said the man, walking him to the door and pointing to a large crowd perhaps half a mile away.

It took Holliday almost twenty minutes to traverse the distance on foot, and once there he walked up to the hastily constructed ticket booth and bought a standing-room ticket, well behind the seated area, since he was much less interested in watching the fight than meeting the referee.

There was a preliminary bout going on, and the crowd was cheering for its favorite, a short stocky man with a shock of blond hair. Holliday saw that the referee was a lean bearded man, and went off to find something to drink. The best he could do was a warm beer, so he took it, spent a few minutes polishing it off, and returned to where he could see the ring. A cheer went up from the crowd just as he reached it, and he saw that the stocky man's hand was being held above his head, while his opponent's corner men were trying to awaken the unconscious fighter.

There was another bout, which ended about ninety seconds after it began, and then the ring stood empty for almost fifteen minutes. Finally a band began playing. Holliday turned and saw the uniformed trumpeters and drummers marching down the aisle to the ring, leading
a tall, broad-shouldered man who he recognized from photos and drawings in the few newspapers he had seen in the last couple of years as being John L. Sullivan. The crowd stood up and cheered, and Sullivan smiled and waved to them.

When they reached the ring the band stopped playing and Sullivan climbed the four stairs, stepped between the ropes, and stood calmly, awaiting his opponent.

A moment later William Smiley walked to the ring in solitary splendor. Again, the crowd began cheering when they saw him, and one woman even threw him a bouquet, which he caught, brought carefully to his lips, and then handed to a teenaged girl who was standing on the aisle.

Holliday studied Smiley as he gracefully made his way to the ring. He was a lean man except for his arms, which were heavily muscled. His face bore no marks of previous battles, and in a time of cauliflower ears and crooked noses that was remarkable in itself. He smiled and waved to the crowd as he entered the ring, then walked over to shake Sullivan's hand. Sullivan, straight-faced, said something that made Smiley laugh, and Smiley's reply elicited nothing more than a sneer from Sullivan.

But Holliday wasn't watching them. His attention was focused on a third man who was approaching the ring: medium height, broad of chest, wearing the mustache he'd grown during his last trip out West, and watching the world through a pair of rimless glasses.

A man dressed in his Sunday best entered the ring and held a bullhorn to his mouth.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned, “welcome to the match for the heavyweight championship of the world. Cheyenne is proud to host this momentous event, and we are delighted to welcome the reigning champion, the great John L. Sullivan!”

Sullivan bowed from the waist as he received a huge ovation.

“Fighting against him will be our own undefeated native son, William Smiley!

The cheer was even louder this time, and Smiley waved to the crowd.

“And coming out from New York just to referee this momentous event is Theodore Roosevelt.”

Roosevelt nodded his head briefly to the mild cheers, and then called the two fighters to the center of the ring to give them their instructions.

“Why the hell did they bring out a politician to ref the damned thing?” complained a man standing next to Holliday.

“He's a little more than a politician,” said Holliday.

“Oh?”

Holliday nodded. “For one thing, he was a boxing champion at Harvard.”

“Where's that?” asked the man.

Holliday smiled. “Little school back East.” He was about to list Roosevelt's other accomplishments, including the treaty with Geronimo, but then the bell rang and the fight began.

Strategy wasn't Smiley's strong suit. He went right at Sullivan, and received a bloody nose for his trouble. Undeterred, he charged the champion like a bull, and like a matador Sullivan stepped aside and landed a powerful blow on his ear that knocked him halfway across the ring.

The entire first round went that way, and the crowd became increasingly silent, because the only mystery remaining was not who would win, but rather how much longer Smiley could stand up under Sullivan's sledgehammer blows.

The bell rang for the second round, and Smiley approached Sullivan more cautiously this time. It made no difference. Sullivan ducked under a left, and delivered a powerful blow to Smiley's solar plexus. Smiley went down to one knee, in obvious pain, and as Roosevelt began counting Sullivan stepped in for the kill.

Roosevelt pushed Sullivan back to give Smiley room, then resumed the count—but Sullivan's blood was up, and he took another swing at Smiley as the fallen boxer was attempting to rise.

Roosevelt pushed him back again, more firmly this time. Sullivan bellowed an obscenity and, to the surprise of the crowd, he took a swing at Roosevelt.

The Easterner ducked, threw a quick left that bloodied Sullivan's nose, and took his glasses off, folding them carefully and putting them in a breast pocket.

“Your friend's gonna get it now!” said Holliday's companion excitedly.

“Don't bet your last penny on it,” replied Holliday.

Sullivan wiped the blood from his nose, roared with rage, and turned his full attention to Roosevelt. He yelled something at Roosevelt that Holliday couldn't hear, then swung a roundhouse right that would have almost beheaded him if it had landed, but Roosevelt ducked and landed a quick one-two punch to Sullivan's belly that doubled the champion over.

“We chose the wrong man to fight against Sullivan!” cried a man who was standing a few feet behind Holliday.

Roosevelt pointed to the timekeeper, who instantly realized what the referee wanted and rang the bell. That seemed to bring Sullivan to his senses, and he walked quickly to his corner, not even deigning to look at Roosevelt, who dropped to one knee beside Smiley and helped him to his corner. Then he approached Sullivan, said something to him, Sullivan nodded, and Roosevelt went back to the middle of the ring. The bell rang about forty seconds later, and the two fighters emerged from their corners. It was obvious that Smiley was still groggy, and it only took one punch—a right to the side of the head—for Sullivan to put him down for the count.

Roosevelt raised Sullivan's hand, they spoke to each other for a moment, and then shook hands and parted.

Sullivan collected a trophy and a check from one of the sponsors and strode off furiously to his dressing tent, while Roosevelt, noticing that Smiley was starting to awaken, helped him to his feet and led him out of the ring and down the stairs to ground level.

As the two of them began walking away from the ring, they passed where Holliday was standing.

“You should have beat the crap out of that pompous bastard, Theodore,” said Holliday.

Roosevelt stopped and searched the faces until he found the one he sought.

“Doc!” he exclaimed. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Buy me a drink and I'll be happy to tell you,” said Holliday.

“Sure,” said Roosevelt. “But not here. I've got a horse and buggy waiting. Let's go back to my hotel.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Plains Hotel. And you?”

“I haven't checked in yet,” said Holliday.

“Where's your luggage?” asked Roosevelt.

“Right here,” said Holliday, touching his gun and his flask in turn.

“Well, we'll get you a room there,” said Roosevelt. “How long will you be in town?”

“Just passing through.”

“Where are you heading?”

Holliday smiled. “That's what we're going to talk about.”

They reached Roosevelt's horse and buggy, which also had a driver, and were sitting in the Plains Hotel's elegant bar ten minutes later.

“Nice place,” noted Holliday, looking at the polished walls and crystal chandelier. “How are the rooms?”

“You won't be disappointed,” answered Roosevelt. “Now,” he said as the waiter brought Holliday a glass of whiskey and Roosevelt some sarsaparilla, “suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

Holliday took a long swallow and leaned back in his chair. “You ever hear of a man named Cope?”

“The paleontologist?”

Holliday smiled. “You've heard of him.”

“He's been digging not too far from Leadville, I understand,” said Roosevelt. “Did you meet him there?”

“I've never met him,” answered Holliday. “I assume you know of March, too?”

Roosevelt nodded. “Yale man. Probably not as brilliant as Cope, but he's got huge money behind him. I assume you've never met him either?”

Holliday shook his head. “Nope. But I suspect I'm about to, all thanks to our friend Geronimo.”

Roosevelt frowned in puzzlement. “What's
he
got to do with this?”

“It seems that Cope and Marsh have gotten everything they want from the Colorado mountains, and now they're digging up the ground in Wyoming.” Holliday paused. “
Sacred
ground.”

“I didn't think there were any Apaches in Wyoming.”

“It's sacred Comanche ground.”

“Okay, it's sacred Comanche ground,” said Roosevelt. “What's that got to do with you or Geronimo?”

“The Comanche want them off it.”

Roosevelt shrugged. “That figures.”

“And since they're loaded not only with scientists but with shootists, it's my job to convince them to leave peacefully.”

“Or else the Comanche will go on the warpath?”

“Not exactly,” said Holliday, toying with his whiskey glass.

“Doc, I can play guessing games all night,” said Roosevelt. “But wouldn't it just be easier if you told me what's going on?”

“You know what dinosaurs are?”

Roosevelt nodded. “I've seen some of their bones at the Peabody and the Smithsonian.”